


A Dance With The Dragon

by recklesseleven



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:06:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recklesseleven/pseuds/recklesseleven
Summary: A bit of fluff about what happens immediately after Sarkan's arrival back in the valley!I'm not really sure where this is going, or if it's going anywhere beyond this, but I wrote a scene immediately following the end of the book because I adore Sarkan and Agnieszka and they deserve more fluff. It's not perfect but I'm pretty happy with it.Hope you enjoy! <3(Also, just going on a tangent here: did any of you catch the Uprooted live-stream Naomi just did and how she said the one image that keeps coming up in terms of a possible sequel to Uprooted is Sarkan and Agnieszka being held prisoner in a ship?!)
Relationships: Agnieszka & The Dragon | Sarkan, Agnieszka/The Dragon | Sarkan
Comments: 19
Kudos: 98





	A Dance With The Dragon

I danced with the Dragon. 

Of course, it took some persuading. At first, he insisted that he did not dance, had not for a century or more and besides that he was sore from riding on horseback all the way from the capital. So, I told him that I didn’t mind if he danced with two left feet and he needn’t be embarrassed, none of us were about to cast a critical eye over his dancing ability- we were all drunk anyway. He huffed with indignation, glared at anyone who giggled at us - they immediately stopped - and then led me to an opening to dance in, his hand blazing hot in mine. But I saw something in his face shift; the crease between his brows lightening as if it were a relief for some long-caged piece of him to finally climb free from its exile deep within. 

My mother and father danced beside us, his gravelly hands gripping hers as light as a butterfly. They were still so in love after so many years. And, now that the Wood was healing, they were finally letting go of some of their fear for each other and for their children. My mother looked beautiful with this new lightness. 

We all danced, my parents, me and Sarkan, my brothers each with a lovely girl to show off to. All of us together, delighted, beneath the warm cloak of the mild autumn night, like an implausible dream. At the back of my mind, I thought of what Kasia might be doing and remembered how she loved to dance. Knowing her, she could still dance with more grace and sureness than any of us, wooden legs or not. 

The night wore on. The fiddle sang cheerily and I laughed at nothing in particular and Sarkan frowned with vehement concentration, unable to bear doing anything improperly. He was quite a fine dancer as it turned out, even after a century of spurning anything festive. The silver dragon on his coat glistened in the firelight as we twirled and skipped. His cheeks flushed with the exertion of it and I delighted in his hair ruffling in the breeze. I thought he looked very handsome in blue. 

His gaze, when I could catch it, was intense. 

We both knew what would come next. The festivities would finally break up, we would turn to each other and say goodnight. But then we'd linger a moment, and then another moment and, finally, resolve broken, he would reach for my hand, or I would reach for his, and we’d step through the night air into his tower, and then to his bedroom. I could feel his pulse in my hand and saw how hard he swallowed. The one hundred years of steady complacency, when nothing could pierce his lonely bubble, had finally ended with the shattering of his tower. I could see it unnerved him. Yet he’d still come back. Not only to his tower, but to us. To his people. Now he was a man I could see myself being happy with. 

Well, mostly happy. 

He grumbled at me at me that I’d scuffed his glossy boots while we danced, even though one word of magic from him would shine them all up again just as good as before. I rolled my eyes at him and tugged at his hand, pulling him down to sit with me and watch the fire. He sat, grudgingly, on the grass and - looking very conscious of my father watching us out of the corner of his eye - he let me lean on him a little. 

“What happened in the capital?” I asked, fiddling absently with one of the silver buttons on his coat. Revelers from the festival were finally drifting away for the night. 

“It took some time to purge the corruption,” he said. “It had spread further than I feared by the time I arrived.” He grimaced. “I had the great misfortune of having to ask for Solya’s assistance to deal with it all. He was perfectly elated by it, of course. And Alosha was able to help too, a little - although she’s still recovering from her wounds. Mostly she prodded that smug grandchild of hers to help us.” 

Kasia had written me of Alosha’s slow but steady recovery but hearing news of her from Sarkan’s own mouth was a soothing balm for my heart- and my conscience. I also couldn't help feeling glad that Sarkan didn’t much like Ragostok either. 

“The Wood is healing more every day,” I said. He looked at me then, eyes locking firmly with mine. I wondered if he felt any guilt for abandoning the valley after protecting it for so long. “It’s still dangerous,” I continued, “like you said. But it’s getting calmer now, more peaceful. Will you come see with me, tomorrow?” 

“Certainly,” he said, releasing me from his gaze. “For one, I ought to check that your better judgement hasn’t been superseded by sentimentality over the whole matter,” he said glancing at the basket of grove-fruit - and ignoring my glower - but then his eyes dimmed, staring into the past, as he added, “I thought for so long that the Wood was implacable. I almost don’t believe it can really be lulling.” 

“I know,” I said, placing my hand on his. And I did know - I still had nightmares. “But it is healing. And it will keep doing so if we help it along.” 

He looked at my hand covering his and frowned, not with irritation, but with introspection, a faraway look drifting over his face. His thumb stroked my finger. 

After a moment, his head snapped up and he eased his hand away and said, “it’s late.” 

“Sarkan,” I said, hurriedly. I’d half expected him to look away, but his eyes settled on mine. Waiting. How things had changed between us. So much had happened. 

Out of nowhere, I realised I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back to the tower. Memories of the thud of cannon balls, the throng of arrows that missed me by a hair’s breadth - the one that didn’t miss, nearly resulting in the Summoning swallowing us all up - Queen Hanna, her dress stained red, her body crumbling to ash, the Wood-queen’s wild eyes staring triumphantly at the carnage. It all crashed over me like an abysmal wave. 

I couldn’t go back with him. Not that night. The idea of leading him to my tree cottage flashed in my mind. But the little hovel didn’t even have proper flooring. He’d probably find it appalling. In any case, I was no longer a the mood for romance. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” I said, staring at my muddy feet. “Don’t forget to meet me tomorrow.” When I raised my head, he looked perplexed, taken aback. This was not how the night was supposed to end. 

He blinked at me. “Yes,” he said, distantly. And he turned without a backward glance and disappeared into the dark. 

When I finally crawled into my cottage bed, some well of grief opened up inside me and I wept. I thought I’d wept all of the horror away already. But it kept gripping me, pulling me back in to its clutches once more. Sometimes it happened on an uneventful morning. Sometimes it was a night like tonight when all was seemingly perfect and joyous. I understood why Sarkan had locked his feelings away. Locked and then re-locked and then shoved aside somewhere to deliberately forget all about them. Then I felt a rush of gladness that I was weeping. I hoped I never stopped weeping when terrible things happened. I hoped I never stopped feeling, even if that feeling hurt. 

With that thought, my mind strayed to how comforting it would be to be wrapped in Sarkan’s arms at that moment, instead of hugging my grass coverlet - another thing Sarkan would hate; I would need to make a proper one at some point - and I climbed out of bed and spoke the words of the jumping spell. 

Once again, I crept through the Dragon’s hallway, like a wraith, with memories surfacing of the last time I came walking this way at night. Those warm memories kept the flashes of battle at bay. My shivering stopped. The carpet illusion didn’t try to disrupt me this time. Perhaps it had been broken with the tower. Perhaps the magic knew it couldn’t hold me back. Perhaps it approved. 

I padded to Sarkan’s door and stopped outside. A thin bar of faint light came from the other side. My breath came out ragged. He must be awake. I wondered, briefly, if he would retreat back behind his stone walls again - if, by dismissing him earlier, I had encouraged him to do just that. 

I shook myself. He’d come back. He’d come to see me at my village. He’d flushed when I’d smiled at him. 

Gently, I opened the door and walked into his bedroom. The door handle creaked slightly, piercing the silence as I shut it behind me. His bed curtains were drawn on one side. A candle flickered on a bedside table the other side of the bed. As I walked over, I saw myself reflected in a beautiful, gilded mirror. I looked ghastly. My eyes were red and puffy and my hair could be likened, generously, to a bird’s nest. 

Sarkan’s dark eyes followed me as I walked over to the drawn back curtain of his bed. He was sat up with a book in his lap. He didn’t look all that surprised to see me. I climbed onto the bed, over the coverlet on top of him and let my eyes glide over him, taking in every inch of his face. I'd missed him so much. My hand found his jaw. I savoured his eyes, still looking boldly into mine, and I relished his neat brows and sharp nose. My eyes lingered on his mouth. His hands had crept up my arms. I’d been leaning into him slowly and his breath warmed my lips. 

“Is this,” he said, in a gruff voice, “going to be a habit of yours?” 

I stared at him, challenging him. “Do you object?” 

His eyes gleamed. His mouth turned up at the corner, just a little. “No.” 

And I sank down into him, at last, kissing him deeply. He threw his book aside onto the table. He probably lost his place.


End file.
